


Laundry Day

by mickeysbubblebutt (brazenlyunabashedlyshamelessly)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Domestic Bliss, Fluff, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 23:25:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4541451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brazenlyunabashedlyshamelessly/pseuds/mickeysbubblebutt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laundry is unexpectedly complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laundry Day

_Huh. Well… That could’ve gone better._

It was Saturday morning, and the day hadn’t started too well. Ian was going to kill him. Staring at the once white laundry in the washer, Mickey reached up to scratch the back of his head. 

As it turned out, Ian’s system of separating their laundry according to colour did have its benefits. Mickey briefly wondered if Ian was too mucho to wear pink.

He was still gazing bemusedly into the washer when Ian entered the kitchen.

“What’s goin’ on?” he asked casually.

Ian was in his running clothes, and Mickey took a moment to run his gaze appreciatively over Ian’s body. He belatedly realised that he hadn’t answered Ian’s question.

“Uh… Had a little bit of a, y'know, a mishap,” Mickey hedged. 

“A mishap?” Ian asked with a laugh. “How much can go wrong doin’ the laundry?”

“Yeah. ‘Bout that,” Mickey began.

The thing about the laundry had started with an argument over household chores. Ian had been pissed that Mickey didn’t do enough; Mickey had protested that the Milkovich family had barely had running water half the time growing up. Where the fuck would Mickey have gotten the experience to fucking cook and clean?

Only that hadn’t really cut it with Ian. 

While Mickey had been trying to think of a good way to explain to Ian what had happened, his boyfriend had crossed the distance that separated them. Taking a look inside the drum, Ian’s curious expression morphed into one of disbelief. He reached inside the washer to pull out a tank top.

“If memory serves,” Ian began carefully, “this was white.”

“You sure?”

That earned him a glare. Ian began to check out the rest of the laundry; the silence that had descended on the kitchen was broken only by the occasional mutter from Ian.

“Mick… All of this stuff,” Ian said finally, his voice strangely calm. “It’s all pink.”

“Yeah, I, uh… I noticed that,” Mickey mumbled. He stared down at his bare feet, flexing his toes against the tiles of the kitchen floor.

“These are my work shirts,” Ian continued. “Did you notice that?” He sounded slightly less calm this time. 

“They are?”  _Shit_. “Musta missed that.” 

Looking up slowly, Ian stared at Mickey as though he were an idiot. 

“You’re not the only one who looks shitty in pink, Mickey.”

“It-it’s no big deal,” Mickey tried to soothe him. “I mean, they’re not that pink.”

“Pink is pink. Nicki Minaj pink, Barbie pink, baby pink, whatever; I can’t wear this to work.” 

Ian threw his hands up in the air, his bullshit quota apparently having been exceeded. Not giving Mickey a chance to apologise–and he was gonna apologise, just as soon as Ian stopped bitching at him–Ian stalked out of the kitchen.

The sound of the front door slamming shut echoed through the apartment a few moments later. 

Running his fingers through his hair, Mickey turned to look back down at the laundry.

_T_ _here had to be a way to fix this._

_Right?_

Since this wasn’t his area of expertise, Mickey turned to old reliable Google. Clicking on the first site that came up, Mickey read through the information. The first paragraph was gibberish–what the fuck was synthetic material?–but the rest made a little more sense.

All he needed was bleach. It mentioned some shit about liquid chlorine bleach, but Mickey didn’t think on that for too long.

_Bleach was bleach was bleach, right?_

Maybe, if he hurried, he could get this shit sorted by the time Ian got home. Mickey liked it when Ian was all sweaty.

Only they didn’t have any fucking bleach in this whole goddamn place.

“Goddamn it.”

Slumping dejectedly, Mickey decided to try soaking the clothes. That was one of the suggestions on that stupid site. He could get the bleach tomorrow.

He was midway through cleaning up the kitchen–that much he could do, at least–when Ian got home.

“Mick?” Ian called out.

“In here.”

Quiet footsteps headed in his direction before coming to a halt. Mickey looked up to find Ian leaning against the doorframe, checking the kitchen out with a carefully neutral expression. 

“You kissing ass?” Ian asked.

“Tryin’ to,” Mickey admitted. He waited a moment before adding, “I put your shirts in the tub. Website said it’ll help get the colour out. That, an’ bleach.”

“Website?” Ian walked into the kitchen, stopping when he was only a couple inches away from Mickey.

It was hard for Mickey not to notice the beads of sweat gleaming on Ian’s skin. He licked his lips before jerking his gaze back to Ian’s expectant stare.

“Yeah, I googled it.”

A smile cracked Ian’s serious expression. Suddenly the tension fractured, leaving Mickey staring into Ian’s bright green eyes. 

“Well, how else was I supposed to do it?” Mickey grumbled, his lips twitching in response to Ian’s grin. 

Ducking down, Ian pressed a kiss to Mickey’s lips. It was soft, just the slightest brush, and Mickey made a little sound of complaint when Ian pulled away.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ian reassured him. “I’ll buy some more. Or I can ask Fiona to do it.”

Mickey pulled a face.

“Your fuckin’ brother won’t let me hear the end of it,” he told Ian stubbornly. “Lemme try what the stupid website said, an’ then–” 

“Mick,” Ian interrupted. He reached out to cover Mickey’s mouth with his hand. Grinning as Mickey gave him an unimpressed look, Ian lowered his arm. “I don’t really feel like arguin’ over laundry right now.”

There was something about Ian’s tone that made Mickey’s pulse speed up.

“What you wanna do, Gallagher?”

Slowly, Ian inched closer to Mickey; to prolong the moment, Mickey backed up until he bumped into the kitchen table.

Which, judging by Ian’s triumphant smile, was what he’d been going for.

Glancing over at the spotless table, Mickey shook his head adamantly.

“Nuh-uh. Don’t even think about it,” he warned. “I just cleaned this fuckin’ thing.” 

“My shirts are ruined,” Ian reminded him.

“I told you laundry wasn’t my thing.”

“Guess I don’t need to ask you what is,” Ian commented.

Mickey didn’t have a chance to reply. Hard hands gripped his ass, and quickly lifted him onto the table. Automatically, he spread his thighs so Ian could fit between them.

“Fine,” Mickey huffed. “But take it easy. This fuckin’ thing collapses, I dunno how to fix it.”

“We’ll take it nice and slow,” Ian agreed. His fingers plucked at the front of Mickey’s sweat pants, and Mickey gave a little groan.

“Well, maybe not too slow.”


End file.
